


You Know Where This Ends

by orange_8_hands



Series: Nails and Teeth [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Attempted Rape, Childhood, Gen, POV Alternating, POV Female Character, POV Male Character, POV Outsider, POV Third Person, Revenge, Sexual Violence, Violence, Weechesters, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 09:48:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_8_hands/pseuds/orange_8_hands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things follow John home, whether he's there at the time or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning** : Attempted child rape; part of the story written from the rapist's POV. The other warnings are spoilers for the fic so if you're worried please read the end notes. 
> 
> **Note** : Slightly different style than usual. Stand-alone for the verse.

  
Cops couldn't find their dicks with both hands and a flashlight, but it’s easy for a hunter to trap another hunter. Especially John, burning bridges with dynamite, not understanding he's got two hostages, peaches and cream smooth skin and baby innocence. He's heard rumors about the older one's lips, fucking pink cunt without hair, she knows what she's doing, back or knees ride her down, but he's looking for the baby, Sammy Sammy girl, gonna make you mine. He's got two blades just itching, scritch scratch rub them against her neck, size the span of his hand, tremble underneath him and he wants to hear her sob, wants to see tears run down her baby fat cheeks and blood bloom in her little dimples.   
  
Laying it out is simple. Reel out some stories about demons that aren't there, hey don't you have a buddy searching for something weird about'em, eyes funky colors, you wanna pass it on to him, thanks Bobby, there's a ghost wrecking havoc over in Tampa, hope he gets that son of a bitch. He leaves little girls in a shitty neighborhood in a shitty town and really John, that's what you get when you leave your toys around. He follows them to a diner and watches the tiny one get pancakes, Freckles tap tap taping her fingers on the table and rolling her eyes every time the other one says something, oughta treat your sister nicer, last time you'll see her.   
  
Maybe she's not completely useless though, cause something makes her stand up straighter as they walk back to the rent-a-week.  She keeps the little one closer and fingers something in her left jacket pocket, thanks for the tip sweetheart, and its time to do the fade back into shadows, no need to grab them off streets when they'll box themselves in for you. Not like he doesn't know where she's going anyways, he'll keep her tied up while he plays kisses and bruises on her sister's skin, and he remembers an old line he read, _four am and men will tremble_ , a long history of wars taught that little tidbit of biorhythm. He's excited, grin gleaming in the dark - he's always taken real good care of his teeth - and he leans against the brick wall like he's got all the time in the world. No one pays him a second glance, not in this neighborhood, not when all you see are big hands and thick boots and that wicked wicked smile.  
  
He's a hunter, patience bred from long nights waiting for things with claws and teeth to show themselves, and he manages just fine with his imagination until five after four, dawn a few hours away, and the sickle heat from the afternoon is nothing but a warm, quiet breeze when he bends in front of door sixteen. Uses tools like a professional; as much fun as watching two little chicks scramble with their heads cut off, he wants to leave a very pretty design back for John, and everyone knows the most important part is the surprise, so no bashing doors down like all the good action movies.  
  
There're two beds and its like Christmas, like his birthday, like slicing a Black Dog into pieces or swinging iron through a ghost. They wear thin tank tops and underwear, Batman for the oldest and little dancing flowers for the baby, and he imagines the sticky tacky left behinds of what he wants to do to them, coating pale limbs and pale faces soon to be black and blue. He drops his jacket and then throws the rope next to Batman, and she's quick, he'll give her that, rolling off the bed and coming up with a shotgun, but he's got weight and length and experience and his hand's on her neck pushing her back into the bed with the shotgun tossed aside before she can get the first shot off. Her green eyes go wide and she bucks and arches under his hand, trying to get leverage, clawing at his arm and trying for his eyes, little feet beating uselessly against his thigh. He grunts at her effort and glances over at little girl number two, her eyes even bigger and mouth slightly open, so many things he can jamb into it, and she's backed up against the headboard in fright, not trained like this one.    
  
He releases her neck to grab her wrists with one hand and the rope with the other, and she croaks out a hobbled "run" to her sister, but the little one just stays there. Apparently big sis sees and her body's fighting gravity now, slamming up off the bed and into him, eyes even wider and already wet, and he starts to get the rope around when she jabs her head up and clamps pointed teeth into his wrist. He roars out, knee-jerk reaction has him dropping the rope, his other hand releasing her wrists to tear her head off him with her hair. He throws her harder than he means to and she hits the wall on her left side and crumbles beside the bed. Concussion, maybe, probably a broken arm at least, she'll be down for the count, but the little one hasn't moved yet and he's hunter enough to check that the bigger threat is over with first.  
  
He's got one hand clamped on his bleeding wrist and he skirts the bed to find her half under it, moaning weakly, and its with an extra twist of vicious pleasure he drags her against rough motel carpet by her ankles. She's scrabbling for purchase with the bristly threads under the bed and he grabs her by her neck to get her the rest of the way out, and as he's leaned over and lifting she twists in his grip and there's a knife in his neck, must've been taught she's too weak for a chest shot, no way can her arms get through the layers of clothing and skin and muscle to do any damage if she aimed for his heart.  
  
He gurgles once, twice, say goodnight now. 


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
Her arm's broken and her head is dazed. Sammy whimpers and she just wants to keen, wants to sob ( _Daddy Daddy Daddy_ ), arm throbbing and lights blaring in her eyes and she heaves, wretches white bile that feels like acid coming up. There's a dead man on the floor, blood pooled around him like abstract art, and maybe he's human, maybe he's not, but he bleeds red and doesn't disappear. She can't focus and she can't see and she's not ready for this, and then Sammy's broken voice breaths "Dee" and she tells herself to get the fuck over it.  
  
(She was dreaming about the smell of pie and blonde hair and hands over hers, spanning a waist seemingly as big as her, and there's a voice saying "that's your sister" and the indentation of kicks and its a thousand and one Sunday afternoons at the park, it's never having a thousand and two.)   
  
She coughs, tries to bring her panting under control, wills the nausea away but it stays floating through her throat for the slightest trigger. She's shaking, adrenaline zapping through her system to singe her nerves to crisps, and she staggers to her feet and to her sister, body moving without much thought, this is already autopilot, she can find Sammy blind and deaf and mute and a thousand miles away, its in her bones, marrow deep.  
  
She keeps her arm away because even the light brush as Sammy glues herself to her other side is enough to make tears spring up and out. She's been crying this whole time, both of them have, and Sammy burrows in like there's a space inside her chest already built for her. Maybe there is, and Dee loses time, a silent tick tock but every small brush of air against her arm brings enough pain for a glimmer of reality to call her back.  
  
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," she says, her mantra, her national anthem, the chant of her heart and brain and soul, but one more time with enough sharpness "Sammy!"  
  
She's hiccupping, her sister is a mess, snot and tears and red faced, and Dee has to pay attention now because soon she won't be able to. "Sam, Sammy, it's okay, okay, it's okay, but we have to, we have to leave, we have to- fuck Sam, look at me. Ok, good, good girl, now I want you to go into the kitchen and call Uncle Bobby. Do you remember the number for Uncle Bobby? Sammy, Sammy look at me, okay, do you remember the number for Uncle Bobby?"  
  
"Yes," and her voice is dull and terrified and maybe lying (but not bruised, not fucking bruised), and Dee digs her hand maybe a little too deeply into little Sammy's shoulder.   
  
"Okay, okay, I want you to call Uncle Bobby, okay? Nod your head Sammy okay, okay call Uncle Bobby." She licks her lips; was she repeating herself? "Call Uncle Bobby and tell him Sting rules. Okay, can you do that for me Sammy?"  
  
Sammy nods.  
  
"Okay, good girl, good Sammy, go call Uncle Bobby, okay?"  
  
Sammy nods and doesn't leave. Dee realizes her hand hasn't yet let go of her little sister's shoulder. She needs to fix that.  
  
There's a body on the floor. She should probably fix that one too.  
  
"Ok, go call Uncle Bobby, Sting rules," and she manages to release her hand this time. Sammy scurries away, still sobbing slightly between hiccups. Dee doesn't process the next few seconds. Then she comes back and doesn't scream, doesn't beg, doesn't break. She can do this.  
  
Pack. Packing was first. She grabs their duffel bags from the bottom of the closet and when she swings them onto Sammy's bed she bites her lip until it bleeds to stop from screaming. Ok, that wasn't going to work, Sammy was going to have to pack, but that's okay, one of the few drills they'd started her with was packing fast, you never knew when you'd have to leave and it would suck to leave your favorite comic behind, no way would Dad go back for it, no way would they be able to get it again. But there was a dead body and a really large blood puddle between the duffel bags and the tiny dresser.  Sammy can't see a dead body, that isn't right (you killed a man, but that thought does no one good and Dee buries it, as deep as it can go, never to be awoken again) so she untucks the blanket she slept on and pulls it off the bed until it covers the man and his blood. She takes her knife and tries to wipe it but the blood is already stiff, clinging to the metal edge, and just this once proper weapons maintenance can wait.    
  
Pack. Body. Weapons. Triage.  
  
No, wait, that comes first, but the man never touched Sammy (never never never never) and Dee's pretty sure there's nothing she's gonnna be able to do, no neat row of stitches needed here, she needs a sling and a head scan and yes, she throws up again, and it fucking hurts.   
  
Sammy comes back. Did she leave? Call Uncle Bobby, that was next on the list.  
  
"You're doing so good, Sammy, so good, but I need you to call Uncle Bobby, okay?"  
  
Sammy is shaking and crying and somehow manages to look even more terrified than before. "I did already, Dee, I called Uncle Bobby."  
  
"Good, good, that's smart Sammy, you're so goddamn smart. Okay, and he's coming, right?"  
  
Sam just nods, holds up her hand with four fingers up (maybe she means hours away), but Sam-I-Am is still crying. It makes Dee feel guilty. Sammy should be smiling, right? Not right now, maybe (huh, the dead body is still there), but in general, more smiling Sammy. "Ok, Sammy," she says, "We're going to play a game." She can't move her arm to make that clapping motion camp counselors on TV make, but she adds fake cheer to her voice. "You're gonna take all our stuff and dump it in our bags but, but you can't touch the blanket, okay? The blanket is hot lava and the carpet is dirt and you can only walk on dirt, right Sammy?"  
  
Sammy nods again, still crying but silently now. "And you'll get a prize," Dee belatedly adds, because what's a game without prizes, "If you do it super duper fast."  
  
Sammy does. Bags are packed and Sammy is a winner, all the way. Dee tells her that. It maybe comes out garbled.  
  
Body. Triage. Weapons. Packing. Bobby. Location change. That's the list, right? Yeah, she's pretty sure that's the list, but maybe she's not remembering correctly (can't tell Dad, can't tell Dad you forgot the fucking list), but she really needs to get Sammy away from the body because Sammy isn't supposed to know about bodies yet, they were going to start her on a salt and burn for an old, old corpse so it was just bones, Sammy doesn't need to see fucking _flesh_ burn as an introduction to hunting.  
  
...though this body wasn't burning so maybe it was okay?  
  
Dee tries to pick up the bags and then she sees Sammy's face looking over her, choking sobs as she calls for her sister, little hands padding her face. Dee's pretty sure she was standing a second ago. Sammy sounds fucking awful, what the hell has she been doing to make Sammy sound like that, and Dee really needs to be a better sister if Sammy looks like that terrified.  
  
"Ok, Sammy," she says, and moving her arm is a really, really bad idea right now. "Sammy, get off me, we gotta go."    
  
It takes awhile but finally Sammy calms down enough to get off, and Dee manages to get the knife (with blood still on it now it's touching her skin she has his blood on her) into her waistband and Sammy is now surgically attached to her hip, which Dee is okay with, and they stumble their way out of the motel room. Dee's trying to make sure no one sees them leave but it's kind of hard when she's also trying to keep herself upright, and finally they make it to the alley behind the diner. Dad always said it was better to hide _in_ the dumpster but there's no way Dee can get herself into it, much less Sam, so she pushes Sammy into the corner and sits in front of her with the knife and waits.  
  
She loses track of time. Sammy falls asleep, too much happened to stay awake, and Dee may be floating in and out because the sky looks much lighter than it did before and she doesn't remember that happening. She's shivering and cold and there's snot and blood all over her and then finally, finally like the clouds parting and spotlight coming down, finally like God's own voice is speaking to her, she sees her Daddy's face, meets his wide, worried eyes, and let's go.


	3. Chapter 3

  
She comes back, later:  
  
 _"Mmm, you have such...fun memories."  
  
Alastair's voice slithers in her ear, into her brain, burrows holes into her skull. A low chuckle follows the first statement. "But really now, I think we can do better, don't you?" _  
  
He's got one hand clamped on his bleeding wrist and he skirts the bed to find her half under it, moaning weakly, and its with an extra twist of vicious pleasure he drags her against rough motel carpet by her ankles. She's scrabbling for purchase with the bristly threads under the bed and he grabs her by her neck to get her the rest of the way out, lifts her from the scruff of it, here kitty kitty. Her body hangs limply and she's still struggling, taught so well, and he slams her back on the bed and ties her up, ignores her screams when he moves her arm.  
  
Her eyes are glassy and she's panting between loud sobs, but that's set aside, time to find the real prize, lay her out next to big sis and watch them both break. Little girl finally ran, but not outside, and he finds her cowering like a coward (oooo, he likes alliteration, could have been a poet, this is poetry), huddled into herself. Even squirming and kicking she's as easy to carry as a couple of gallons of oil, and he's got her on the bed and naked and thrusting in to her screams within thirty seconds, time him.  
  
With his thrusts comes the older girl's steady pleas "Stop please stop you can have me leave her alone you fucking Sammy Sammy it's okay I'm sorry it's okay I'm gonna fucking kill you Sammy oh God Sammy" and her voice is rough from where he manhandled her and her eyes look like they're gonna roll back into her skull, and she's still moving, trying to escape like he didn't learn how to tie ropes and knots and little girls up.   
  
The one under him has gone silent and away, mind floating and he slaps her face once, twice, tries to bring her back online but she's gone and really, that takes some of the fun out of it. He grunts once more and then he rolls off her, pushes her away and grabs the other one, still trying to release little kitty claws. Blood lingers on his dick and he jams into her and here's something at least, she's crying and sobbing and screaming and he doesn't know if it's because all his weight is crushing her onto her broken arm or because he's splitting her in two. Her eyes roll back from the pain and she's out too and he finishes but it's just not what he wanted, it really isn't.  
  
He was gonna leave John to find his discards, get away with a clean escape and listen for the rumors of John breaking down those last few inches into madness, John doesn't get how revenge can be served cold, but now he changes his mind, wants to capture John's face when he walks in and sees his girls bloody and torn like rags. Little one is breathing but her head shut itself down, he's seen it before, not sure if anybody could reboot it, but the other one will wake up, he's sure of it, unless her body goes into shock and dies and really ain't that a kick in the pants.  
  
"Fucking waste," he mutters, and decides to sharpen his knives while he waits.  
  
John, at least, will stay awake.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Extended warning** : Child rape. Implied child (and adult) murder. Could be read as implied adult rape. Torture using memories.
> 
> This was originally written as two endings (actually, this was originally about something else completely, and not even the fic I meant to work on), but I combined them. It's up to the reader how much of what happened is canon, versus how much Alastair made up for the first two sections too. (It technically fits with the rest of the verse and I probably won't decide until I write more pre-canon or Sam-John battles, so for now at least, it's up to you and consistent with the verse either way.) 
> 
> Oh, but what is canon in my verse is Bobby, paranoid guy that he is (and also one of the few with a set telephone number) came up with a list of phrases the kids should use so he knows what's up when they call in emergencies and can be said in front of witnesses/civilians. Pastor Jim also has the list, along with Caleb (the three ones trusted with the girls care away from John), but Dee is closest with Bobby so that's the first one she thinks of when she's, you know, concussed and barely holding it together. In this case, Sting signals the creepy ass song "Every Breath You Take," aka something is attacking them that may or may not (but probably not) be supernatural.


End file.
